


Let Me Be Your Remedy

by tenscupcake



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, F/M, Masturbation, Telepathy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4561281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenscupcake/pseuds/tenscupcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An amorous extraterrestrial spikes the Doctor's dessert with a potent aphrodisiac, and Rose has to deal with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Be Your Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> I always told myself I'd never write a fic like this. You know, the sex pollen/aphrodisiac trope. But hey, here we are. I can't really say how this started because I can't explain it myself. The idea was born in my head and it just festered until I couldn't ignore it anymore. That, and I got very egged on by Amber to explore this. It's way outside my comfort zone and I really struggled to write this and was basically questioning myself the entire time... and whining to my betas and hounding them to make sure this turned out ok (thanks a million [Amber](http://shutupandlovetennant.tumblr.com) and [Kristina](http://hanluvr.tumblr.com)). But anyway, this is without a doubt the most filthy thing I've ever written. Proceed with this fic if you're intrigued but be warned... it hath no relish of salvation in't.  
> NOTES ON THE WARNINGS: (contains spoilers) The warnings may seem clear from the tags, but I'll elaborate a little for those with any concerns (thanks, tomgiggleston!). The non-con is NOT between Rose and the Doctor, and it does not get so far as rape. There is a bit of dub-con between Rose and the Doctor, however.

Lots of people hit on him. Humans, aliens, all sorts. Try to pick him up. The more subtle flirtations she can ignore without much effort, but when direct invitations to a bedroom are involved (which isn’t uncommon enough for her liking), it’s more difficult for her to suppress the urge to tell them off. But she never has to, because he never seems remotely interested. In fact, more often than not, he seems deeply uncomfortable with and even unsettled by women, men, or other non-binary life forms making romantic or sexual advances. Well, until recently.

It’s what she desperately hopes is their last night on this disaster planet, and they’re the honored dinner guests of the royal family. A thank-you for defusing the Nak’kala bomb and saving their city, nothing too out of the ordinary. But the King and Queen appear both too enthralled by the Doctor’s tale of how he solved the algorithm to short circuit the enemy’s weaponry and a bit too sloshed on this absinthe-tasting garbage to notice their eldest daughter ogling him. Worse than that, the Doctor himself doesn’t appear to notice Artemisia drooling. He’s just enjoying the food and company without any signs of discomfort.

But it seems like no matter how many times this happens, Rose’s vision will never stop going red when she’s forced to watch it happen. She supposes Artemisia’s skin is a bit smoother than hers, though also a bit more yellow. It’s not an off-putting yellow, though, more like an inviting soft gold that she has to admit is… enchanting. Or at least attractive. They’ve all got skin in varying hues of yellow; the Doctor had explained it was a special carotenoid stored in their skin that protects against radiation the same way melanin does in humans. But she wasn’t completely paying attention to what he was saying at the time; he was wearing his jim-jams and specs and sitting on her bed, on their first night here. An accidental extension of saying goodnight that was quite commonplace aboard the TARDIS.

Her hair is so dark blue it just looks black unless it’s illuminated properly, like the crystal chandelier above the dining table is doing now. Her distinctly feline eyes are rimmed long, dark eyelashes Rose can’t manage even with mascara, and her voice is dripping like honey and, frankly, the disgust is beginning to show in her face. So she turns away from the spectacle, composing her features. Doesn’t want to seem anything but polite and respectful in their host’s company.

After finally shifting her focus away from the Doctor, she’s pleased to discover that Artemisia’s cousin, Arvensis, isn’t bad to look at, either. He’s chosen the seat to her immediate right and he seems more than delighted to have her as a guest. She should really be paying _him_ more attention, while she still has a chance.

“So, what do you lot do for fun around here?”

Arvensis beams at her with pristine white teeth, his brown eyes crinkling at the edges in a way that reminds her too much of the Doctor’s. Shoving thoughts of him out of her mind, she tries to engage with what the sunflower-colored bloke is saying. He really does have a nice complexion, his muscular build obvious with the shorts and cutoff sleeves he’s wearing (warm weather on this planet). His hair is deep maroon and in a sort of messy array of spikes swooping heavily to the right. Seems like it’d be nice to touch. Maybe she should. Take it up a notch. He has undeniable aesthetic appeal.

She knows she and the Doctor aren’t exclusive. He makes that abundantly clear every time he invites a new stranger on board without even asking her. (And yeah, she’s counting Mickey in this because, really, she couldn’t have said no to that when he was right there in the console room with them.) Why would he care if she pursued relationships with other eligible men they happen to come across? He expects her not to care when he gets on _too_ well with all the women they encounter, either naively unaware that they’re constantly hitting on him, or just feigning indifference.

Biting into another piece of buttery fowl that basically tastes like chicken and whatever gorgeous orange-broccoli-looking vegetable is next to it, she nods in affirmative as he invites her for a tour of the castle gardens.

Just as, on the periphery of her vision and hearing, Artemisia begins to insist that the Doctor try one of her special banana cakes. She thinks she may as well be hand-feeding him while he licks the crumbs from her fingers, the way they’re both going on about them. And it’s all too soon that the Doctor is talking through a mouthful of cake.

“Marvelous! You baked these yourself? Where d’you get the bananas? See, I’m a traveler, me, and I happen to know that the nearest galaxy that grows fresh bananas is at least three thousand…”

Suddenly inclined to take Arvensis up on his offer, she gestures for them both to leave the table with a surreptitious nod to the double doors. He excuses them politely to his parents and they head for the exit arm in arm.

Okay, sure. She and the Doctor have kissed a few times. Really snogged once or twice. It seems like once they’d had the one in togas after they’d narrowly escaping death-by-statue, he didn’t feel the need to hold back in that respect anymore. But he never expresses any desire to talk about it. He’ll fire up his gob faster than ever or roughly send them into the Vortex if ever he detects she’s about to ask. And however badly she wants it, she worries that he doesn’t really work like that, or that he works a lot differently than she does. Or than humans do, in general. She’s anxious about asking him, or making too bold of a move that could end with him taking her home or laying down firmer boundaries for physical contact. So she always chickens out.

Nor does he seem amenable to things escalating beyond than a casual (if lengthy) kiss. His lips never drift from hers down to her jaw or neck, hands never wander from where they always start, one hand cupping her chin to hold her still while the other holds her waist firm against his, and there are no needy sounds from the back of his throat. All unmistakable signals that he is in control and isn’t about to relinquish the power.

Some days she only needs to escape to her en suite to hyperventilate a bit and calm herself down, but others she needs a bit more time to herself. _Quality_ time. And he’ll just come knocking, wondering when she’ll _finally_ be ready to leave, like he has no idea what he’s done.

He, on the other hand, seems to be able to turn it on and off, like he has all the self-control in the world, or maybe even that he’s asexual, and humors her when he knows she’s already particularly randy (he can tell somehow, she knows that much). Pretends to be turned on and flirt back, and even gives her the pleasure of a thorough snog, but has no intention of ever following through. As far is Rose knows, he wants to maintain a no-strings-attached platonic relationship but still enjoy some of the perks of a romantic one. Holding hands. Pulling her closer than is necessary under the guise of danger. Sharing a bed, even, on more than one occasion, and acting like it’s nothing.

She’s considered that he regrets all the kissing and sending those signals, and now he’s trying to tell her to back off without explicitly having any difficult conversations. It certainly explains his behavior of late. Splitting them up on rescue missions when he never used to. Even more enthralled than usual by attractive strangers. The acute lack of aforementioned kisses. The way he sounds _too_ nonchalant and apathetic when someone labels them a ‘couple’ when it never used to give him pause.

Well, she gets it. She’ll give him the space so he doesn’t have to bother anymore.

She’s pretty sure he’ll be pushing the yellow seductress away, tucking the cakes in his jacket, and running off to his room shortly after she’s out of sight.

His private room. Normally he doesn’t mind bunking up when they stay the night outside the TARDIS, but when their hosts said they’d prepared two rooms, he didn’t allow Rose time to protest before graciously accepting the arrangement.

She squeezes Arvensis’s arm a little tighter as he leads her out of the vaulted, cylindrical dining hall to one of the palace’s many purple-carpeted halls.

The view of the garden at night is truly breathtaking. Three ringed planets loom static in the dark space overhead, and glowing purple bugs light up the sky as they whistle by in random patterns. Soft white lanterns illuminate blue dirt pathways of vivid red leaves and multicolored flowers. For a while, she can stroll through the winding labyrinth of native and exotic plants and just enjoy herself, leaning close to inhale nectars that remind her of maple and blackberry and candy floss, tasting tart furyberries and cloyingly sweet zinfaus and (Arvensis’ favorite, conveniently) floral _rose stars_ as he insists they’re safe to eat.

But before long she starts to regret leaving the Doctor alone, even if it’s something he does often, because with him it never seems quite as purposeful, even spiteful as what she’s doing now. And she won’t admit it to herself, but she starts to miss the stupid, alien sod. She thinks it’ll be fairly easy to sneak into his room and convince him to let her crash on his bed while he’s up all night fiddling with something or wandering through the palace. Especially since he actually slept last night; there’s hardly a chance of him catching a full night of sleep two days in a row. And if he did manage to catch a kip, she still liked the idea of it being in the same bed with her. Farfetched as it may sound. Maybe she’s been blowing everything that’s happened out of proportion. He’s never been vocally opposed to these innocently intimate things before.

It isn’t difficult to get Arvensis to take her back without letting him think she’s abandoning him for the man she came with. After only a yawn and an offhand comment about how saving the day and the delicious treats of the garden have tired her out, he’s offering out his elbow to walk her back to the palace.

But when they return to the dining commons, the Doctor and his beautiful distraction for the night are nowhere to be found. The empty room is eerily quiet, like it’d been abandoned in a rush. A half-eaten cake lies toppled on its side, on what she knows was the Doctor’s dinner plate. He’d never leave a morsel of food uneaten if he had a say in it. Where’d he get off to in such a hurry?

Arvensis walks her to her room, which is luckily adjacent to the Doctor’s, without picking up on Rose’s distress. Tousling his hair and kissing him on the cheek, she thanks him for the lovely evening, but he isn’t exactly eager to leave.

“Would you like some company tonight?” He runs a hand through her hair, pushing it behind her ear, his voice a husky whisper.

Swallowing hard, she actually considers it for a moment. He’s more than a little gorgeous and perfectly polite, she really _could_ use a shag, and it’d be fun to find out what tricks a proper alien might have in bed. It’d take her mind off the Doctor and all the ways he cocks up their relationship every day.

The Doctor, though.

“I…” she starts, giving herself time to think. His eyes really are mesmerizing, his eyebrows perfect arches, and his lips are a sort of faded maroon, smooth and quite delicious-looking…

The Doctor, though.

She’d just be doing this to get back at him. And he hasn’t even done anything wrong, not really. She just doesn’t _understand_ what he’s doing, at all, because they haven’t talked about anything. He deserves that from her at least, the conversation he’s been avoiding, before she breaks their implicit pact of fidelity.

“… can’t,” she breathes finally. “’M sorry. I’m really, really flattered, and you’re a nice bloke. Handsome, too,” she adds, touching him lightly on the cheek. “But the Doctor and me are sort of… well,” she trails off.

“Ah. I understand, Rose.” He holds his hands up, so she doesn’t have to say more. “Thanks for walking with me tonight. I’ll see you in the morning before you leave, I hope?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” she nods with a tender smile.

Arvensis jogs off for whatever part of the palace holds his own room with a friendly wave, and she’s left in a state of stupor. What a genuine bloke. She decides if this conversation with the Doctor goes down the toilet, she’ll run and find him to say she’s reconsidered his offer.

Going back to her theory that the Doctor had snuck away for some privacy in a rush, the first place she checks is his temporary quarters next door.

But when she walks in, he’s not alone.

He’s sitting on the bed, arms locked and rigid supporting his weight, head thrown back and eyes closed, straddled by enemy number one. His jacket lies in a lump of brown pinstripes on the white carpet, and his light brown Oxford shirt hangs open, wrinkled and unbuttoned, though the view of his chest is obstructed by the bare-chested woman currently licking it.

“Please,” he whispers, breathing sharply through his teeth as he moves a hand to her arse and pulls her closer, rolling his hips up into hers, hard. A second time, with a barely contained groan. And a third.

“Oh, my God,” she blurts out finally, after what feels like minutes of standing frozen in horror and shock, eyes glued to the obscene display of interspecies lust.

His head snaps up to look to the source of the sound, eyes pulling half-open lazily, and only then does she see his face twisted in pain, a grimace twisting down his mouth, eyebrows pulled together and deep creases in his forehead, even as his hips thrust up again with a deep moan. Maybe she’s not as gentle as he’d like. Well, he should have thought of that before he hopped into bed with her. She turns to leave, tears already burning her throat and collecting at the edges of her eyes, cursing him with roughness and worse, when he calls to her.

“Rose.” As though in an instant of clarity, the panic and urgency in the single syllable make her waver in the doorframe. Looking to him again, she still sees pain there, like he’s battling an inner struggle and he’s not strong enough to win it. “Hmmm, please…” he grunts as she marks the exposed, far side of his neck with aggressive kisses. “Hnnhhhh… stop her,” he grits out.

Hearing this, Artemisia silences him, taking his mouth with hers, and she watches as he weakly resists her movements, pulling back a few inches and arms flailing mildly, but in only a few seconds he succumbs, humming against her lips and thrusting into her again. What’s going on? The Doctor may look slight, but he’s one of the stronger blokes she’s ever met. Perfectly capable of resisting a woman this size if he wasn’t inclined to do what she wanted.

Just as she’s about to condemn him to hell for deciding to take the whore home in the first place (so to speak), she remembers the banana cakes. The ones she was _very_ eager to get into his mouth less than an hour ago. That she said she made herself.

He’s drugged. It’s the only explanation.

Dashing over to the bed, she manages to wrench her away from the Doctor with a sickening wet sound, but she overestimates the force she’ll need: Artemisia stumbles from the Doctor’s lap and onto the floor. Rose doesn’t have it in her to apologize.

“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Her tone and the angry gestures between her and the flustered Doctor are all she needs to make her point. “Did you drug ‘im?”

“Drug?” she questions, eyes innocent. Shielding her eyes from the view of the bare-chested physique with one hand, she thrusts her opposite finger at the door.

“Just ge’out,” she demands.

“Why should I have to? He doesn’t belong to you. He wants it. He was enjoying it before you interrupted. Such a rude guest!”

“No…” the Doctor groans, shaking his head.

Rose threatens to retrieve her brother Arvensis from where he’d just headed down the hall, and Artemisia scrambles to her feet. (He didn’t like some of the inappropriateness at the table at the start of dinner, and had vocally admonished that kind of behavior, so she figured playing that card would work.) Scooping her shirt up off the floor, she storms out of the room with a whoosh of hot air and slams the door so hard the room quakes.

The Doctor apologizes with an air of delirium as he flops back onto the bed. When Rose doesn’t immediately join him there, he calls out again.

“Rooose, come here, love,” he drawls, eyelids drooping dangerously.

Alarmed by his choice of epithet, she comes over and grabs his shoulders, shaking them a bit as she asks if he’s all right, checking for obvious signs of injury, but he tugs her down on top of him and kisses her. With all the carelessness and enthusiasm that’s been missing from the other kisses. And for a minute she can’t fight him, because he’s never been this into it, had this much passion in the strokes of his lips and tongue or splayed his hands on her lower back like this, fingers slipping under her shirt and sending shivers up her spine. He pulls her forward roughly, rolling his hips up against hers and he’s so, so painfully hard and longing for her touch and impossible to resist.

For just a few moments, she lets herself have him. Have everything she’s wanted from a kiss with the Doctor for two years, combing her fingers through that unruly thick hair and sighing against his mouth and pressing her breasts against the lean, exposed frame of his chest. Her few moments flash by like a falling star, though, and with all her mental and physical strength she has to push herself away from him.

She can’t let them go through with it. It’s not his decision; it’s that woman’s. And that’s not how this was ever supposed to happen.

The Doctor whinges like she never would have thought she’d hear in her life. She can hardly get out three words of her lecture why they shouldn’t and won’t be doing this when he gets to his feet and takes back what he wants. A hand on her arse, another behind her neck, mouth on hers and body pressed so close and so warm and so hard just there on her stomach…

“Doctor!” she yelps, shoving him back a bit too hard. He collapses back onto the bed in defeat.

“Come on, Rose,” he complains, like she’s the candy his mum won’t let him have.

Words race out of her mouth, words about drugs and kissing and sex and mistakes and right decisions, but it seems more and more like she’s just talking to herself, figuring out what to do while her explanations and pleas fall on deaf ears. Instead of listening he’s unzipping his trousers, wriggling them barely a quarter of the way down his thighs with one hand, and touching himself with the other.

Okay. So this is very, very bad. Much worse than she thought. Is it safe to leave him on his own before this wears off? Whatever she drugged him with is potent stuff.

A strangled moan escapes the Doctor’s lips.

Doesn’t matter. She can’t stay here.

She figures self-help the safest way to let him burn this thing out, so she doesn’t stop him or try and make it awkward by ogling or condescending him. But neither does she want to abandon him completely, vulnerable to another assault from a local, while he’s in this state. Reaching superhuman speeds, she runs for the door, intending to stand guard outside it while he takes care of business.

“Rose, please don’t leave,” he begs her. _Begs her_. Her fist clenches around the door handle, but doesn’t turn it. Is he feeling something strange, or even uncomfortable as a side effect of all this? Is he _scared_? Maybe being randy is something foreign to him. She can’t leave when he’s basically been poisoned and specifically asked her to stay. Taking a few steps backward, she quietly reassures him she won’t leave with shallow breaths and broken words.

She has no intention of watching at first, dutifully facing an empty wall and cementing her eyes shut, but the sounds he’s making are so beautifully tempting, exceeding all her imagination’s best estimates of what he would sound like. They’re going break her well before she can try too hard to be good. But before ten seconds have passed he’s crying out a desperate, rushed string of moans like he’s already reached climax.

She can’t stop herself from whirling around to examine the evidence, then, and seeing the fresh splash of liquid soaking into the dark red sheets and the heavily-breathing Time Lord with his eyes closed.

She can’t help staring down at him now that she’s already looked, sprawled on his side exhausted, his chest and abdominal muscles heaving and contracting with his lungs… his slowly softening, shrinking length. She’s just taking a mental note that it seems… smoother and less blemished than any human bloke she’s seen, when a small movement of his head pulls her line of sight to his eyes.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, his eyes open but drooping like he can hardly hold them up. Overwhelmed with guilt for violating his privacy, she turns around again, sitting down this time, crossing her legs resolutely. “Rose, _please_ come here,” he murmurs. Begs her _again_. Whispered words thick with lust and confusion and… she thinks fear.

“Doctor, you’re not in your right mind, I can’t… I can’t help you.” She tries to explain the situation as well as she can, unsure how much he can understand while he’s this intoxicated. He recognizes her, and was coherent enough to ask her to replace the wanton stranger that tried to have her way with him before. And despite the apparently insatiable arousal he’s experiencing, he isn’t still forcing himself on her.

A pathetic whine sounds from behind her, a plea too desperate for words that dips and slowly turns into a lingering sigh. A deep breath, then another. He can’t possibly be going at it again already? “Ahhhh, fuck, Rose, please…”

Bleeding Christ, he sounds gorgeous.

Squeezing her palms against her ears and closing her eyes, she tries to think of the most un-sexy circumstances she possibly can. A Dalek out of its polycarbide case. But she can’t seem to press hard enough for noise canceling, she can still hear his choked moans muffled through her hands. A Jagrafess. Her mum. She can hardly hear it when he croaks out her name again, not an ounce of sanity left in his voice. Finally trying to hold back now, maybe.

Dropping her hands, she hears him panting again, slow, punctuated breaths that confirm he’s finished again. How many times will it take, will he need to regain a sense of himself again? Or maybe it’s not based on orgasms achieved, maybe it’s simply a matter of time. Minutes, hours, days? What way is there to know?

“Rose… I need you. I won’t… touch… please, just look at me.”

Biting her lip, she swivels around on her bum, eyebrows knitted together with concern. He’s pulled a sheet over the naughty bits, and is wiping up the new spill on the sheets with a soft corner of it.

“She dosed me with… bromelatynide. It’s…” he hisses through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes closed. “Very powerful. Aphrodisiac. To Gallifreyans. I dunno where she… oh, fuck…” His right hand drifts down his chest and over the exposed strip of skin on his stomach, grazing the skin there, shivering at his own touch.

“Doctor, concentrate,” she snaps before it can dip beneath the sheet, hoping it’ll help keep him focused.

“God I… can’t…” His hand wraps around something jutting from the sheet and his head falls onto the pillow.

“Doctor, how do we fix it? What’s the cure?” She’s on her feet now, gaze fixed on his face and definitely not on the edge of the sheet.

“Ohhh…” he groans as his hand jerks forward under the sheet, “got to come. Got to… touch…”

He’s having his third wank right in front of her, and though he’s taken steps to be somewhat more subtle and quiet about it, it’s purely something the Doctor would never dream of doing, unaffected by exotic drugs. Whatever she’s dosed him with has him completely mad. She isn’t sure if she can trust anything he says, even if he does answer her questions.

“You need to touch someone else to get over this? Or someone else has to touch you?” She tries to be methodical about this, clinical even. She only wants to help him get through this; it’s dreadful to watch him, a being that’s normally an archetype of power and restraint, completely lose control.

But he doesn’t respond.

Any questions lingering in her brain that he might have answers to start to melt and drip from her mind, because he’s simply beautiful. The rhythm of his fist protruding from the sheet is mesmerizing. She can just imagine the way his fingers are curled tight around his hard, aching length, pulling the skin there. His eyes are closed again, must be imagining it’s her hand or some other part of her body that’s stroking him like this, the way he’s chanting her name. His hips start to thrust forward with the backward motions of his concealed hand, stomach tensing and his other hand digging into the sheets, bunching them up into a fist. It’s as his mouth falls open and his eyebrows climb up his forehead, features contorting with pleasure, that she realizes what she’s doing is violating him in the worst possible way. It’s sacrilege. But she can’t turn away.

The thrusts into his fist quicken but still can’t match the pace of his hand’s frantic tugs as it speeds up. With a final, breathy cry his body goes rigid and he topples over the edge, makes another stain on the sheet as his hand finishes with a few forceful thrusts before slowing to a stop.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes as soon as he regains a sense of dignity, hiding his face in his pillow.

“Don’t apologize, Doctor. You can’t control it. But tell me HOW. DO WE. FIX THIS.” She emphasizes each word, trying to communicate the importance of what she’s saying.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, pulling away from his pillow and looking her in the eyes. There’s at least a shred of his sober self in his eyes as he shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “Bromelatynide. Touching myself won’t... dull the effects much. It’d be slow. It’ll take… hmmm… hours to wear off.” He’s already struggling to maintain some measure of control, after only seconds. “Chemicals from… orgasm by itself don’t antagonize the compound. But Time Lords, when we… touch someone during….” He groans heavily. He’s making himself think about it now, and it’s definitely not helping.

She steps closer to him, snapping in front of his face when his eyes start to glaze over again, staring at the cleavage on display where her v-neck dips. “What happens, Doctor?”

“Time Lords. Touch telepaths. We produce a special signaling molecule during… orgasm if someone’s… Blimey, you’re beautiful Rose.” Staring at her crotch now. Lurching forward and stretching one of his long arms, he easily wraps it around her waist before she can step away, grabbing a handful of her bum and pulling her in. After stumbling forward a step, she plants her feet to resist as he continues his attempt to tug her closer, shouting for him to snap out of it. But he just hums to himself as he starts rolling circles around the flesh of her backside.

“If someone’s what?” Circling a hand around his wrist, she pries his grabby fingers from her bum and prompts him again, as calmly as she can while maintaining the volume to get through to him. It isn’t one of her brighter ideas.

Contracting his extended arm towards his body, he reels her in like fishing line, rearranging them so his much stronger hand manacles her wrist when she tries to pull it away. Before she realizes how determined he is, she’s tumbling onto the bed and on top of him, contorting her body with tremendous effort so neither of her legs touch him _there_. But it happens despite her efforts, her knee brushes over the prominent member as soon as she tries to climb off him.

Then his hands aren’t the problem anymore. His arms wrap around her, easily manipulating her position so he sustains contact with his erection on her thigh, and his mouth latches onto the side of her neck, tongue and teeth rough on the sensitive skin. Half a squeal escapes her as he grinds against her slowly, letting her feel the thickness and length of him, so hard and persistent and _hot_ through the thin yoga-style trousers she chose for this trip…

 _No!_ She can’t be enjoying this. They can’t do this. Not when he’s… like _this_.

“Doctor, stop.” Her voice is more assertive than she expected, and she squirms as she rocks to the side and tries to roll off him. But his arms crush her against his chest and he rolls with her onto the velvety crimson sheets, steadying them horizontally, his mouth drifting down towards her breasts with insatiable hunger as he continues to rock against her. She doesn’t have the physical strength to fight him off; it’s a simple fact.

“Doctor, stop, _please_!”

With a harsh gasp, his lips finally leave her skin.

“Rose, I’m sorry.” His eyes go wide as he rushes the words out, momentarily horrified at himself. Scrambling away from her body, he flips over, hiding from her.

“Doctor, what you were sayin’ before, how do you get over this?”

“If I… climax when someone’s… someone else is touching me… skin. Like a hormone. More with more… contact… Helps us… bond… Fuck, Rose, I have to… I have to…” His right arm, though half-squashed under his weight, fidgets purposefully and she knows he’s toying with himself again and she can just almost see it… just a little higher up on her elbow…

No! She has to turn away, too. It’s the right thing to do.

 _God_ , who is she kidding. There isn’t a single thing _right_ about this entire fucked up situation.

The sheet’s been kicked away she can’t tear her eyes away from his bum now, anyway, the smooth white patch of skin (no freckles here, she can’t help but notice) between the rumpled hem of his Oxford and the waistband of his trousers, tugged down just enough to allow access to the other side.

Can she trust what he’s told her? He hasn’t technically said anything untrue so far, or lied as far as her knowledge goes. He can hardly think straight or even speak without sounding obscene, but she thinks he isn’t just making things up. If what he’s saying about his body responding differently to touch is true, which she wouldn’t doubt because of the way he’s hard-wired for tactile telepathy, then how is it relevant to whatever he’s been drugged with?

“What does this hormone do?” she asks, completely embarrassed to even talk to him at all when probably he’s ten times more ashamed and just wants to be left alone to deal with this for a while. But she won’t forgive herself if he tells her later that he wishes she’d toughed it out and tried to help him. To get him back to normal faster, at any rate. So she stays her course, fighting back the overwhelming urge to echo his moans with higher ones of her own.

“Mmm, neutralizes faster. Ah, faster...” Oh. His hand picks up speed, his body starting to shake mildly with the violent motions of his arm.

“Touch me,” he calls hoarsely. “Please. I want you to touch me. Anywhere. Just, skin… it’ll help. Please, Rose.”

Two words she can never refuse.

This is just to help him. She’ll feel nothing.

“You said more contact is better, yeah?” she asks, already pulling her shirt over her head.

“Ohhhh, yes.” She doesn’t know if it’s an affirmative or he’s just getting close, but she assumes the former and starts to reach around his torso to pull off his shirt. He grumbles incessantly when she takes his hand away from its pleading focus to roll his sleeves down and off his arms one at a time, and wastes no time returning to his task, still entirely unconcerned that she’s witnessing everything up close.

Curling into his back, she conforms her body to his as much as she can, wriggling her arms around his waist, skin to skin everywhere except where her bra covers (a good thing, too, because pressing bare breasts and nipples against his cool skin would be…) _No!_

“Doctor, it’s all right, yeah? I’m just tryin’ to help. ‘S not weird. We’re gonna be okay, you and me.” She says everything she can to try to reassure him near his ear, careful not to blow breath over his neck and make it all worse for him. Also dutifully keeps her hands clasped over his diaphragm, ignoring the way his forearm is rubbing against hers, and the way his chest heaves erratically beneath her palms. Definitely not listening to the rhythmic, dry friction of his fist and definitely not imagining what it’d feel like to curl her fingers around it, squeezing and tugging his solid heat.

Moisture definitely isn’t seeping through her folds as he pushes his bare bum back against her with short thrusts on every push and pull of his hand. She definitely isn’t clenching her jaw so tightly it aches so she won’t cry out his name when he comes. Her hands certainly aren’t curling into sweaty fists against his chest now to prevent one of them drifting down his abdomen to replace his own hand. No, she’d never.

“God, Rose, I…” His voice cracks just before he falls completely silent, neck twisting down until his face is buried in the sheets and he stops breathing altogether. His hips freeze, bum clenching up while his arm finishes with furious thrusts and finally he groans, stifled and low into the mattress as his climax overwhelms him. Breathing slow and deep against his back, she swallows hard and fights to forget everything she’s just experienced.

She’s grateful she couldn’t see his hand wrapped around his cock, or his face. Glad that hers was nestled between his shoulder blades, resting _just so_ on that mole he loves so much. It kept her focused on how adorable he is, rather than how sinfully attractive. Distracted from those desperate noises he made, her name rumbling from deep in his chest as he came. The way his body tensed and shuddered with pleasure as she held him in her arms.

Well, fuck. She’s thinking about it _now_.

Rubbing a hand along his shoulder with delicate pressure, she breaks the heated silence with a timid whisper.

“How’re you feelin’?”

“Mmm… keep doing that,” he breathes on a sigh.

“Maybe not much better, then,” she mutters to herself. “Will this work by itself? Me touching you like this, I mean,” she asks, continuing to stroke his arm, trailing the pads of her fingers then the length of her fingernails up and down his arm.

“Hmmm… no. Just feels _soo_ good.” Blimey, he’s still delirious.

“If you need to go again, just go. ‘S all right.”

“Can’t _you_ touch me this time, Rose?”

“Doctor…” She tries to lace her tone with disapproval and take her touch away, but it’s difficult with the way he’s starting to twine their fingers together to prevent both. The way they fit together is too perfect, and she can only imagine how well a certain other part of him would fit inside her. 

Slowly, as not to separate their joined hands, he rolls onto his back until she’s hovering over him, trapped by his firm grip on her hand. Chest bare, long neck exposed and begging to be bitten, hair in damp disarray, plump pink lips parted slightly, a light blush on his cheeks… eyes zeroed in on her breasts.

“We can’t,” she affirms. His eyes snap up to hers. “I won’t take advantage of you like that.”

Unclasping their hands, he brings them up like he’s about to cup her cheeks, but they hover an inch from her skin, waiting.

“Let me show you.” Every word is still a struggle, eyebrows low over dark, intense eyes.

For the few times he’s done this with her, she knows he’ll never do it without consent. He might not even be _able_ to without consent, some invisible biological barrier. Whatever it is he wants to show her, it must be something that’ll help him.

“Okay.”

The familiar, bewildering surge of a foreign consciousness flows through his fingers as they make contact, currents through metal conductors that tingle her senses and short circuit her own thoughts. The electrical storm continues until he’s everything around her, she can hardly feel or remember anything that isn’t the pervasive heat of the Doctor’s mind, dark and desolate as it is timeless and passionate.

A vivid memory bursts to life on the blank canvas, exploding with colors and sounds like she can’t experience from her own senses. The dim turquoise glow of the console, the soft curves of warmth as _he_ holds her in his arms, steps and turns and dips her low. Every detail shines through like it happened just minutes ago, the precise mold and cushion of the shoes under his feet, the smooth stickiness of leather over his arms, the soft chimes of her laughter (he knows he’s impressed her now). The faint aroma of alcohol from the drink Jack never finished and the curious jealousy in the set of the man’s jaw, the way he can’t take his eyes off the dancing pair.

It’s only when Jack’s been situated in a room of his own, and he watches her head off to her own, that Rose realizes what she’s really here to see. The images overwhelming the Doctor’s thoughts are vivid but fleeting, so she can barely catch them. Her bare legs in his arms as he takes her against the console, his mouth latched to her breast. Seated on the jump seat, clothes strewn to the grating, hands tight on her hips as she rides him slow and steady.

A menagerie of his indecent memories follows quickly upon the first. After their first day together in this body, after Christmas dinner with _her mother_ , of all people, once Rose has gone to sleep and darkness cloaks the ash-covered London, his tongue is delving deep into her folds in his fantasies, her hands fisting in his new hair as she cries out his name. In a parallel universe, he absently gets doors open with the sonic and types queries into the nearest computer, but shoves the black and white server’s outfit up past her waist in his daydreams, tears her tights in his haste to pull them down her thighs. Leaves an angry purple mark on her neck as he joins their bodies, those nice black trousers pulled down to his knees, his hand on the bathroom counter for leverage as he moves inside her.

“Always wanted you,” the Doctor breathes, grunting softly. It pulls her to the present, back to her own awareness, and she realizes the Doctor only has one hand on her temple now. With all the explicit daydreams he just relived in graphic detail, she’s not surprised to glance down and find the other pleasuring himself again.

Knowing he’s always wanted this (and also wondering how he knows that she’s always wanted this), there’s no force in the universe strong enough to stop her hand from gliding down his body, shivers following its path. Enveloping his hand with hers, she closes her eyes, learning the motions he likes, fingers roaming across his knuckles to gauge the strength of his grip, grazing a pinky and index finger over his length (he sucks in a gasp) for position. Memorizes the length and speed of his strokes (they’re faster and harder going downward).

Curling her hand around the base of his shaft, she inches upward slowly, pushing his hand out of the way until he’s all hers, hot, solid marble blanketed with soft, pliant skin textured with swollen veins. He whimpers as his hand searches for a place to rest on her body, and settling for a place on her breast he squeezes it lightly. Hardly different from a human bloke.

Tilting his head with her other hand on his cheek, she leans down to press her lips to his. It’s not like it’s their first kiss. But they’ve never done anything remotely like this, and she doesn’t want to overwhelm him more than he already is. So she means to keep it somewhat chaste, despite what she’s doing to him right now, an exploratory kiss that can escalate if he wants it too. But it simply doesn’t work out that way. Her lips meet his just as he moans with a twist of her fist around his cock, and tempted by his open mouth she latches onto his bottom lip. It’s wet and messy and it isn’t gentle and he tastes like salt and bananas and time as he kisses her back eagerly.

He hums into her mouth every few strokes of her hand, each higher than the last, lips and tongue more aggressive as she continues to work her magic. But suddenly she’s overcome with the desire to _taste him_. He’s been using his hand all night, after all. He deserves a bit of a change of sensations.

With a final tug on his bottom lip and a satisfying wet smack, she pries her lips from his and stops her hand. His resulting whine is truly pathetic, his hand seeking out hers to start it moving again. But she wrestles his hand away, and without even a pretense of teasing she slinks down his body and engulfs him in her mouth. His hips jerk up involuntarily and he groans louder than he has yet, and she watches with an intoxicating thrill of power as his eyes roll back in his head and hands turn to fists in the sheets, knuckles white.

It doesn’t take much. Just a few slow bobs up and down his length and she can feel his hips quivering under her hands with the effort not to thrust into her mouth. A few bumps of the tip against the roof of her mouth and her name sounds as filthy as a curse on his lips. A little swirl of her tongue beneath the junction of the head and shaft while she hollows out her cheeks for suction and down and up once, twice, three times…

His muscles seize up beneath her, pushing him just a centimeter deeper into her mouth and she carries him through it, lips and tongue savoring every inch of his pulsing cock as her muffled cries harmonize with his. A concentrated version of the flavor in his mouth, without the essence of banana, spurts on her tongue. Something salty and mildly sweet and lusciously alien. She sucks him slow and gentle as he deflates between her lips, swallowing the last salty remnants of his pleasure before letting him slip from her mouth, soft against his thigh.

His body goes limp with a drawn-out groan, flexed arms finally relaxing, eyes closed as his head sinks into the pillow, chest rising and falling heavily with slow, deep breaths. She can’t help but giggle quietly to herself, a little chuffed. Crawling up his torso, she pauses just above his head, straddling his waist and stroking his cheek with her thumb.

“Better?”

“Mmm.” He nods but doesn’t open his eyes, still drunk with bliss.

Taking advantage of his moment of weakness, she runs her fingers over his jawline and down his neck until he sighs his approval. Lowering her head to his chest, she presses her lips to his sternum, feeling a robust double heartbeat beneath his ribs. As she continues a path over his collarbone and throat, his head tilts back, spurring her on. What started as gentle, calming kisses have turned ravenous, lips and tongue sloppy on his neck and jaw, teeth tugging on his pulse point. He moans a little and she realizes she can’t tease herself anymore.

She’s had to watch and hear and _feel_ him come too many times now without any release.

“Up for maybe one more round?” she pants just an inch from his mouth, her gaze fixed on his dark, hungry eyes.

“Oh, yes.”

Hands rushing to her waist, he flips them over, claiming her lips just as her head hits the pillow next to his, fast enough to make the room spin around her. All the intoxication from his latest orgasm seems washed away by what little foreplay she’d managed, his mouth hard and insistent on hers, vocal about things he likes. His tongue slides between her lips, seeking out and circling the tip of hers, teasing what else he can do with it, heat flashes through her clit. Bucking her hips up against his, she suddenly frowns against his lips, because he’s still mostly flaccid even between her legs like this.

When she starts to grumble incoherently rather than kiss him properly, he pulls back just enough to shush her. “Just need a minute,” he breathes, planting wet kisses along her cheek and jaw. “You won’t even notice.” Any feelings of impatience give way to spreading, pleasant warmth as he brings his lips back to hers, a slow, sensual glide of wet heat. She hardly notices his hands wriggling under her weight, but arches up into him to give him easier access. Within a few seconds her bra is tossed aside, his hands cradling her breasts while his thumbs roll slow circles over her nipples, bringing the silky rounds to taut peaks in a matter of seconds. She moans praise into his mouth.

Moving one hand down, he wriggles out of his own pants and trousers, which are still sadly clinging mid-thigh. She whimpers when the other leaves her breast, too, but he needs both to get hers off her hips. Once they’re past her bum, she waves his hands away to shove them down her legs herself, as he maneuvers as best as he can to scramble over her clothes without breaking contact. She shakes the bed in her impatience to kick them to the floor, as his mouth latches onto her breast, pulling the crest into his mouth with gentle suction.

Her fingers bury in his hair, begging him to stay, for his tongue to never stop swirling these circles… but then she feels his hand between her legs, delicate strokes along the inside of her thigh to nudge them apart. Without any teasing two fingers slide between her folds and brush lightly over her clit, and she almost screams, stars exploding behind her eyes with the onslaught of dual pleasures.

“Rose, you’re so… wet,” he groans. God, she is. It’s pooling around his fingers.

His lithe fingers dance in a slow rhythm around her clit as his mouth shifts to her other breast, devoting the same fond attention to the opposite nipple until she sobs out his name. It’s then that she realizes all the little shifts he’s been making above her haven’t been random adjustments. His erection is pressing against her thigh, sliding back and forth to give him all the friction he can get.

“Doctor, inside me,” she pleads.

He releases her breast with a pop, and slides his fingers out of her with a slick wet sound even more obscene. Swaying forward, he takes himself in hand and guides the tip of his cock to her entrance, wasting no time with teasing before sinking deep inside, and she cries his name because it almost hurts to be stretched and filled so quickly.

He buries his face in her neck with a sharp cry, trembling with the urge to move. She relaxes her tensed muscles as her walls expand to acclimate to him, tipping the scales from mild discomfort to intense pleasure as the seconds pass.

“Rose, are you sure?” he growls out.

“Yes,” she whispers.

He captures her lips in one more searing kiss that leaves her dizzy and gasping, and then starts to move.

“Hold me,” he huffs, breathless. Right, more direct contact. The remedy.

Wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his back, she massages around his shoulder blades, then behind his neck and up into his hair as he pushes in and out of her, filling her again and again with sweltering pressure. His elbows support him over her as he smears sloppy kisses over her neck, her temple, her lips. It’s too good. She’s already too close to the edge.

She lifts her hips up to put pressure against her clit with every thrust, pulling his head down until her mouth latches onto the side of his neck, sucking gently. One hand steady behind his head, twisting in his hair, she brings the other down his spine, lower and lower until she squeezes his bum. Pulling him closer as he pushes forward on the next thrust, she feels him _so deep_ and so hard and it flips a switch inside him and he quickens his pace, feet grasping at the mattress for purchase as he rocks the bed frame against the wall with every thrust.

“I’m… I…” he whimpers just at her ear.

“Me too,” she whispers. “Ah! Just come, Doctor.”

The way he cries out her name pushes her over the edge, her walls flutter and spasm around his cock as the liquid fire overwhelms her and she melts, limbs turning to jelly with the bliss as it consumes her body. She trembles through the aftershocks of a few more thrusts before he detonates, his hips trapping him deep inside her as he empties himself with a gorgeous, melodic crescendo of ecstasy.

He crumples on top of her, his face sinking into the pillow next to hers as he tries to catch his breath. Holding him close, she squeezes his chest against her breasts and leaves a trail of kisses at the join of his neck and shoulder, trying to give him all the skin-on-skin contact she can for as long as possible.

“Oh, Rose,” he mumbles as he finally rolls off her. “So lovely.” He grins ear-to-ear with a contented sigh, but the smile slowly fades as his chest begins to rise and fall heavily, slowly. Almost like… he just fell asleep.

“Doctor?” she calls.

No response.

Leaning over him, she presses an open kiss to his lips.

Still, nothing.

But he doesn’t look knocked-out, in a dangerous coma or a post-regenerative sleep or anything ominous of the sort. He looks peaceful, his eyes soft, every last crease in his forehead smoothed out, lips parted gently, a just-shagged style to his hair that she quite likes. Maybe a side effect of the drug, extreme fatigue once it’s been counteracted.

Pulling the sheet up to his chest, she kisses his forehead and hops out of bed to slip her knickers and shirt back on before padding across the room to the door.

She grabs the book she’d brought from her room and returns to the Doctor’s bed, resting against the headboard and settling in for a long night. Whatever other side consequences that nasty aphrodisiac has, she wants to be awake just in case he stirs with another new ailment. She isn’t very tired, anyway.

\---

“I thought you two might want breakfast in bed,” Arvensis laughs. Rose is still amazed how gracious he’s been about the whole thing.

Taking the tray of what looks like more fruits from the garden, assorted breads, and the local, pastel blue equivalent of scrambled eggs, she thanks him profusely while the Doctor stares, his cheeks and ears beet red.

They both pick at the items on the tray once he’s gone, trying bites of everything without ever finishing them, handing items to each other with good recommendations or setting them in the corner of the tray as they reject them.

Only after they’ve taken the edge off the hunger does the Doctor bring up the previous night.

“Listen, Rose… thanks for taking care of me last night. I’m sorry about… you know, how I acted.” She’s guessing he means what he had to see with Artemisia and the several times he couldn’t restrain himself from getting off in front of her, so she doesn’t let him ramble on and embarrass himself further.

“”S no problem,” she says simply, leaning in for a kiss.

But it’s chaste again. As friendly as each one prior to last night, a calm token of affection and gratitude without any of the passion of a lover.

Determined, she climbs on top of him under the sheet, straddling his waist and tilting her head to deepen the kiss. He matches her enthusiasm this time, bringing his hands up under her shirt and drawing light circles on her back, pulling her tongue into his mouth and sucking it gently, sending a flash of tingling heat to her center.

After easily slipping her shirt over her head, his hands wander to her breasts, kneading soft circles while his thumbs tease her nipple, while her tongue laves down the column of his throat. But he’s strangely quiet. Changing tactics, she leans her head further down and tries just below his ear, scraping her teeth across his skin as she trails messy kisses down his neck. Still, she doesn’t get much.

“Somewhere else I should try?” she whispers, feeling a bit defeated.

“No, no, that feels lovely, Rose.”

“Does it?” she questions, narrowing her eyes. Just to investigate, she slowly slides her body backward along his, searching, until her knickers glide over his… rather still small and squishy length. There isn’t a bloke alive who can fondle the breasts of a woman he’s attracted to and not get a stiffy in the time it takes lightning to strike.

Guilt and embarrassment flood through her veins and straight to her face more quickly than she can squirm off of him.

“Rose, there’s something I should tell you…” he begins, as collected and professional as he’s ever been. She doesn’t let him finish.

“I thought you always wanted me?” she accuses, unable to disguise the rejection in her voice as it wavers. The very thought that he was able to manipulate her so well, fabricating memories to make her believe… when really he was just…

“Rose, please.” He takes hold of her wrist, but gently, so she could still roll away if she was so inclined. “Hear me out.”

“Fine,” she concedes, crossing her arms to protect her chest.

“I can’t… get aroused the same way you can,” he confesses.

“What d’you mean?” Oh, blimey, this must the bad news she’s been hoping would never come. This really was just a one-time thing, then.

“Illicit aphrodisiacs aside,” he seethes, the words bitter in his mouth. “Under normal circumstances, I need… well… I feel it in here.” He taps his temple with two fingers. “I need the telepathic link for any sort of physical contact to be arousing. It doesn’t mean I don’t want it. Or dream about it. And sometimes I _wish_ a simple touch could… well.”

“So… did you not… enjoy any of that, then?”

“No, I did! It’s wonderful, Rose. Being with you, touching you, holding you… it’s always wonderful. I suppose I could compare it to a hug, or holding hands. It’s very pleasant, but…” he trails off, scratching behind his head while he searches for the right words.

“But… you can only get turned on if I’m inside your head?”

“Exactly. And I wouldn’t do that to you, Rose. A telepathic connection with a Time Lord isn’t easy. It was never taken lightly, even by someone of Gallifreyan physiology. But with a human, it’d be… overwhelming. Dangerous even. And irreversible. I’d never expect you to do that for me. So I never asked.”

“Are you asking now?” she squeaks.

“No,” he shakes his head firmly, his tongue working at the back of his teeth like he’s trying to excavate a seed. “Just wanted to be honest. Considering what happened.”

She’s quiet for a long moment.

“What if I said I wanted to?”

He cracks a tiny crooked smile that slowly turns into a bright, toothy grin.

“Really?” He makes no effort to disguise the wonder and adoration in his voice.

“Show me how,” she insists, snuggling up against him, eager to take this step with him.

But just then, there’s a knock at the door.

“How’d you like the breakfast!?” Arvensis shouts through the door.

“Oh, delicious! Brilliant,” the Doctor calls.

Arvensis cheers from the hall, and asks if he can come in to take the scraps and plates for them. He nods down to her naked bosom and she pulls the sheet over herself as the Doctor calls one more time towards the door. “Yep. Come in!”

“Once we get back to the TARDIS,” the Doctor promises with a wink, too low for the other man to hear.


End file.
